


Love Has the Longest Arms

by river_soul



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy/girl!Chekov</p>
<p>He didn’t treat her like a little sister, like a friend or anything else for that matter. He was simply…there. The Doctor. Perpetually grumpy and half irritated, someone always on the periphery of her world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Has the Longest Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to jazmin22 for being an awesome beta . This story is in response to this prompt at the st_xi_kink wherein the prompter asked for the aftermath of aliens making girl!Chekov and McCoy do it . This might be triggery as it has mentions of past sexual assault although nothing graphic is mentioned here.

It’s Nurse Chapel that examines her after they get back, her face soft and hands gentle. Chekov lies on her back and stares at the white ceiling of the infirmary as she tries to block out the humiliation she feels churning inside her. It’s only been a few hours since they were released and beamed aboard the Enterprise. Chekov isn’t sure where the others disappeared to; she’s not sure she cares, except that Uhura is here with her. Chekov is grateful for her silent presence beside her.

“This might hurt,” Chapel says and Chekov tenses when she feels the other woman’s gloved hand inside her. There’s a small pinch and Chekov can hear a slight intake of breath, not her own and she squeezes her eyes shut, tears leaking out, hot against the side of her face. There’s more pressure, distant and light and then the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, the snap of rubber gloves. “All done,” Chapel says and Uhura helps her sit back up, smoothes the dirt stained uniform down her slender, pale legs.

“I’ll be right back,” Uhura tells her with a reassuring smile before she follows Chapel out of the room. Chekov can see them in the hallway, heads bowed together, whispering urgently. She doesn’t know what they’re saying but when they finally do return Uhura’s face is smooth and unblemished but the expression of pity on Chapel’s face makes something twist unpleasantly inside Chekov.

“I think,” she says, swallowing down the rest of the tears she wants to cry, “that I would like to go to my room.”

“Ok,” Uhura says, “ok.” Her hand is warm on Chekov’s back, firm and sure, all the way to her room.

-

It’s late when McCoy makes his way through the almost empty infirmary. There’s only the skeleton crew of the night shift to greet him, and while a few nod at him as he passes, he ignores them all. He shuts himself in his office, stares at the mound of paperwork piled on his desk. It only takes him a few hours to finish up the back-logged paperwork he missed during the captivity. By the time he’s reached the last stack he’s worked himself into a foul mood but all his irritation falls away when he realizes what they are. Post mission medical exams. He’s supposed to sign off on all of them before they’re logged into the system.

He reads through most of them quickly but doesn’t even bother looking through his own before he signs off on them. When he gets to the last file, and sees Chekov’s name written out in Chapel’s neat handwriting, he stills. His hand hovers over her folder for a moment before he fishes out the half-empty bottle of bourbon in the back of his desk. He knocks back two shots from his coffee-stained mug, throat burning, before opening the file.

He doesn’t get far, stomach churning at words like tearing, bruising, bleeding before he throws up into the trashcan beside his desk; wretching until there is nothing left in his stomach, the muscles in his back spasming.

Later, in the pre-op room, he burns her file, watches the paper darken and curl in on itself before he washes the ashes down the drain.

-

What happened in the cell, the exact nature of their release, is never made public. An edited, kinder version makes it into the ships logs and Kirk jokes, easy and light, to the rest of the crew when asked how they managed to get out. Everyone believes the story he spins, blinded by the flash of his smile and quick mouth. Chekov is thankful, so very thankful and when Kirk looks to her, the smile fading around his eyes, she thinks he understands, even if she doesn’t say the words.

-

McCoy avoids her and the bridge all together. He used to be there most mornings, arms folded over his chest, glaring at everyone and anyone who got close enough as he listened to Kirk tumbling through another story. They never really talked much before; he didn’t ruffle her hair like Kirk or tuck her under his arm like Sulu. He never took her on shopping trips or talked boys with her like Uhura. He didn’t treat her like a little sister, like a friend or anything else for that matter. He was simply…there. The Doctor. Perpetually grumpy and half-irritated, someone always on the periphery of her world. She had thought he was handsome once, before she got swept up in Sulu‘s kind eyes and warm hands, but that was a long time ago.

Now Sulu won’t even look at her. He doesn’t touch her anymore either. He holds himself stiffly beside her on the bridge, poised and polite. There are no more jokes or easy touches and it makes Chekov feel dirty, used up and soiled in her new uniform. Only Uhura touches her anymore; tight hugs and warm hands on her neck and arms, like she’s trying to make up for everyone. It chafes; this constant attention, that’s in such sharp contrast to the others, the absence of touch where she needs it the most.

-

When she dreams about it, the damp smell of the cell and the cold brush of stagnant water, it’s Sulu and not McCoy that’s there. In these dreams Chekov isn’t scared or embarrassed, they’re alone and Sulu is careful and sweet. He whispers that he loves her and holds her against him as her body opens up to him without blood or pain. It’s like the books she used to read, curled under her covers at home. Everything feels right, feels good and when she opens her eyes she doesn’t see McCoy’s dark, guilt ridden eyes staring back at her as his body spasms and he grunts out something, low and harsh, into her ear. She just sees Sulu, eyes bright with love and adoration.

-

The Enterprise is massive, a labyrinth of decks and hallways but it is not infinite and Chekov eventually runs into McCoy. It’s been a solid month since the incident when it happens. He doesn’t see her at first, head turned down, gait slow and unsteady. He looks warn and haggard, worse then her. When he sees her he flinches, whole body jerking back, expecting a blow. He’s close enough that Chekov can smell the bourbon on him and she closes her eyes, swallows reflexively, remembering the wet taste of his mouth on hers.

“Hello Dr. McCoy,” she says but her voice sounds unsteady, even to her own ears, despite her best effort. She wants, so badly, for this to be ok. For them to be ok. She doesn’t want to remember all those horrible things each time she looks at him. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t want her, couldn’t even…

The shame of that memory burns, white hot against her senses. She can’t even think the words, just remembers her hands on him and his desperate shudder. She doesn’t want him to feel guilt and shame either. She wants for things to be normal, like before. She wants to feel clean, bright. Young and untarnished, not this ugly thing that Sulu can’t even bring himself to look at.

“Chekov,” McCoy barks out finally, voice rising unsteadily. It’s like he doesn’t quite see her, focusing instead on something behind her. The guilt in his eyes and the steady resolve not to look at her make the muscles in her face seize up. Her lips tremble and she clenches her jaw hard to fight off the tears.

“Doctor, I think-,” she starts again, tone desperate enough that his eyes jump to her. The guilt and self-loathing in his expression stifle any words she wanted to say. She feels so unclean, so ashamed for what they did together that her face crumples up despite her resolve not to. He looks stricken and horrified at her expression.

He’s gone by the time her first tears fall, leaving her alone in the dark hallway with soiled memories and the smell of old bourbon.

-

More months trickle by and Chekov turns inward, turns away from those she used to call friends. Uhura still tries, half-heartedly now and Chekov feels the tight press of guilt against her heart with each painful blow of indifference she gives to the older woman but she convinces herself it’s for the best. She can’t have this constant reminder of what happened, of how things are different now. She needs things to be normal for a while, needs to feel like before.

It isn’t hard to find new people, others who don’t look at her with pity or disgust, who don’t flee from the room every time she enters. The mix of friends from engineering she makes clap her on the back, ruffle her hair and tease her without mercy about all the little things. They make her laugh; make her feel whole and included. She teaches them curse words in Russian over late night poker sessions and learns awful Spanish pick up lines over shots of Scotty’s illegal hooch. She kisses her first boy, some nameless warp drive tech, mouths wet and sloppy. It feels good, nice. Normal. She doesn’t even think about McCoy until the next morning, liquor still working its way out of her system.

The unexpected flood of guilt and shame she feels overwhelms her and she vomits soured liquor into the toilet. She avoids him and ignores him when she does see him. Eventually he leaves her alone.

-

It’s some ship-wide celebration, some nameless victory the Captain and the rest of the bridge crew managed to win. In the mess hall, Kirk wraps an arm around her shoulders, hugs her close over the cheer they all let up. “Did a good job, Chekov,” he says. He smells like sweat, eyes bright with alcohol but when he smiles at her his expression is soft. She squeezes him in return and he lets her go after a minute, disappears into the merle.

She spends the rest of the evening dancing, embolden by Kirk’s smile and gentle manner. She’s just the right side of tipsy, not too drunk and too sober. She giggles with her friends from engineering and dances with Uhura, laughing until her side hurts. When she finally collapses into one of the chairs to catch her breath she sees Sulu. She waves at him, fingers curled halfway in on themselves, feeling freer then she has in months. He stares at her unmoving before he smiles, too, but it’s strained, thin. It doesn’t reach his eyes and Chekov can see her own guilt and disgust reflected in his face.

She turns away quickly, light mood and happiness evaporating in an instant. Kirk’s smile and Uhura’s laughter mean nothing in light of Sulu’s face and Chekov feels worthless and dirty all over again. It feels like what happened was yesterday, not months ago. She clenches her jaw, willing away the tears that want to come. She’s ashamed and angry at how quickly these old feelings rise up inside her. It takes some time to push them down, to ignore the desire to run away but there’s a strange sort of pride, satisfaction that rises up in her when she doesn’t give into those needs. She feels strong for the first time in a long while.

She can do this. She is doing this. She’s stronger than Sulu.

She can face this.

She lets out an unsteady breath, eyes closing momentarily before she rises and forces herself back into the crowd. She stands there unmoving for a few moments before she’s dragged in, strange hands pulling and tugging her back, familiar laughter over the music. For just a second the emotions are foreign to her but she opens herself up and then she’s falling, wholeheartedly into them.

She doesn’t look back.

-

It’s a few days after the party when Sulu sets his tray down beside her in the mess hall. She can tell he’s nervous, eyes looking everywhere but her. He clears his throat twice but words fail him. It makes Chekov itch to touch his hand, the one lying close to her but instead she shovels stringy, tasteless vegetables into her mouth, and looks away. She can hear his breathing, obscenely loud in din of the hall. They eat in silence but it’s the first time he’s sat beside her outside of the bridge.

He follows her out into the hallways afterwards. Chekov feels her face heat, heart leap in her chest when he mirrors her steps, standing beside her in the turbo lift. She feels something of her old self returning, a pleasant warmth inside. Outside her door he touches her for the first time, the grip on her arm gentle but he pulls away quickly when she turns to face him, hope in her eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” he tells and she watches his face, the open lift of his eyes. “I feel,” he starts, interrupted by Chekov’s lips on his own. She grips his forearms, surges upward, eyes closed. The kiss lasts a few seconds before he pulls away violently. The look of surprise, guilt, and confusion hit her like a physical blow. She staggers back.

“What?” he asks, “What was that?”

“I thought you wanted,” she begins helplessly. She doesn’t know the English words or phrases to say, to express the pain, the love or the longing she feels inside.

“Chekov…No,” he says. He shakes his head at her. “Not like that, never like that. I came because I was worried,” he says and his voice is so gentle, so understanding that she feels gutted.

“Don’t,” she tells him, head twisted down, her short fingernails pressing half crescent moons into her palm. She feels like she might be ill. “I need, I need to go,” she tells him, grateful that he doesn’t try to stop her. She knows he’s watching her, can feel the weight of his eyes on her until she turns the corner. She doesn’t stop walking until she’s six floors down, half the ship away. She collapses into a dark corner, sobbing. She feels stupid and irrational for the utter heartbreak that’s settling over her. The possibility of something between them had been bright before, a girlish fantasy of love and forever. Now she knows it’s impossible and the realization that she’d had this knowledge all along makes her sob harder, throat closing up.

It feels like dying.

-

Chekov doesn’t know how long she cries, just that it feels good when she’s done. By the time the last sob claws its way out she feels empty, hallowed out like a vessel. Waiting for something, someone to fill her up again. She know she should move, go back to her room. It’s reckless to be sitting here. She asking to be discovered, to have to explain herself but she doesn’t move. Instead she presses her cheek into the cool wall of the ship, feels the deep hum resonate through her chest and breathes, in and out.

She’s halfway to sleep from exhaustion when McCoy finds her. She can hear his grunt of surprise, remembers it from before her. “Don’t go,” she asks him, eyes still closed. For a moment she thinks he’ll ignore her but then he’s suddenly beside her, sliding down the wall. There isn’t that much space between them but it feels like a gulf, vast and daunting.

“Are you…ok?” his voice is hesitant, rough.

“No,” she says and realizes it’s the first time she’s answered anyone truthfully in months. It doesn’t feel good, like she expects it to, when she admits it though. It doesn’t feel like much of anything really and that scares her a little. “He won’t even look at me,” she says finally, eyes still closed tightly. It’s easier not to have to face him. “You can’t look at me either. Won’t. God,” she chokes out, voice wet. She’s burning with all that she wants to say.

The hand on her shoulder surprises her but not as much as the surge of warmth, of peace that rises up inside her a result. She turns into him, reaching blindly for the fabric of his uniform. It takes him a few painful seconds to accept her in return and help pull her across the distance separating them. His hand is warm and broad on her back. The weight of it feels good, reassuring and Chekov curls her fingers into the rough fabric of his shirt. She breathes deeply, chest burning. He smells a little unwashed, like old bourbon from the last time but none of these things remind her of what happened in the cell or her nightmares. She can feel the rough scratch of his beard against her brow as he mouths sorry against the crown of her head.

“I don’t know how to go back,” she tells him.

“Neither do I, kid, neither do I,” he admits and Chekov doesn’t realize how much of a relief it is to hear him say that, to hear her own confusion mirrored in his voice. It’s a strange sort of comfort to know that he’s just as unsure of how to move on, to get past this.

“Thank you for staying,” she says finally, sinking into him. She feels heavy and uncoordinated with exhaustion, too tired to be embarrassed by any of this.

“Of course,” he says, voice pained.

Chekov isn’t sure how long they stayed there together but when she wakes up in the morning, tucked safely in her own quarters, she can still feel the phantom heat of his embrace.

-

It’s three days later when she sees McCoy again. He’s hunched over his meal in the mess hall, fork dangling carelessly as he reads something on his data pad. The line of his brow is flinty with concentration and he doesn’t look up right away. She clears her throat and watches the way his shoulders tense and the tendons in his arms pull taunt. It passes after a moment and he looks up at her.

She shifts nervously, wondering if it was foolish to assume that moment they shared in the hallway meant something. “Mind if I join you?” she asks.

He pauses and she thinks he wants to say no.

“Sure, kid,” he says instead, gesturing with his fork. “Got some reading to do,” he tells her by way of warning, lips turned down into a frown.

“S’ok,” she tells him and the half smile on her lips pulls the skin of her mouth tight as she reaches for her own data pad to pull up half-finished equations that need her attention. When she looks up at him a few minutes later and catches him looking at her he’s not smiling but he’s not scowling either. The expression on his face is hard to place but he holds her gaze. She smiles at him and she sees something shifting behind the bright green of his eyes, some warmth emerging.

She’s not sure what it is or what it means but it puts her at ease, stills the nervous jiggle of her legs under the table.

After that night she starts taking her meals with him more often. He always eats late, when the mess is almost empty but the quiet suits Chekov. She likes it better this way, with just the hum of the ship and the even breathes of the man across from her. It’s calming compared to the loud, chaotic activity she faces in the bridge all day and better then the grief that comes when she’s alone.

-

It starts with a cough that stings her chest and then two days later her throat feels like it’s on fire. She feels feverish and flushed all day, mind scattered enough that Spock corrects two of her equations during their shift together. Even Sulu places a hesitant hand on her arm to ask if she’s ok. By the time she makes it to dinner her head is hurting, body sluggish.

“You look awful,” McCoy says and purses his lips slightly when she sits across him at the table. He’s wearing his patented frown but Chekov knows this is his way of asking if she’s ok, if she needs his help. Half the ship thinks he’s uncaring and insensitive but she knows better. She’s come to read between the lines these past few months, learned to see something new and different.

“I feel…hot,” she admits, closing her eyes and taking an unsteady breath. When she opens her eyes again he’s beside her. There’s no hesitation in his eyes when he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead and feels for her pulse against the soft skin of her wrist. His hands are cool against her skin and she leans toward him a little.

“Oh. darlin’,” he says and his voice is uncharacteristically soft and low, “you’re burning up.”

-

She spends the night in the infirmary, for the first time in almost a year, and tries not to think about the last time she was here. She concentrates on the constant beep of her heart monitor and the low, steady tones of Dr. McCoy down the hall, making his rounds. She can hear Nurse Chapel, too, catches the light scatter of feminine laughter and their footfalls together as they move progressively closer.

Nurse Chapel comes first, taking her vitals and carefully removing IVs and monitors. McCoy is silent, watchful over her shoulder but he doesn’t speak to either of them. “You’ll need to stay another night, just for some more rest but the infection is gone and your vitals are normal. You might feel a little weak,” Chapel warns, smile bright enough that Chekov is helpless not to return it.

“Ok,” she says, accepting the warm squeeze of the nurse’s hand on her arm before she leaves. McCoy doesn’t follow her. He takes the seat beside the bed and Chekov smiles tiredly at him. When she opens her mouth to ask about some dinner her throat closes up, too dry for any more words. When she stops coughing McCoy is up again, helping her take slow, long gulps of cool water. His palm is warm against the skin of neck as he steadies her, tilting the cup up. When he pulls away Chekov feels an unexpected ache at the loss of contact.

She reaches for his hand before she wets her lips and stares at the careworn wrinkles around his eyes. “Thank you,” she says, watching him flex his tanned, strong fingers against her own; pale and small, deceptively fragile.

“Sure,” he tells her and for once there’s no witty, cutting retort to brush away the burgeoning signs of emotion Chekov can see.

When she tugs at his hand he follows her pull and ends up sitting halfway on her bed. She can feel the heat of him through the thin, white hospital sheet and lets out a shaky breath, feeling a little less bold then before. She avoids his gaze, looks instead at their intertwined hands. It’s easier if she doesn’t have to look at his face, if she just follows the want that’s building in her heart. She’s half-sick with fear when she leans up and presses a hesitant kiss against the dry skin of his lips.

He doesn’t pull away immediately but he doesn’t return the kiss either. He doesn’t even breathe and for half a second it feels like Sulu all over again but then he swallows, lets out a pained, wanting breathe. Chekov trembles. “It’s ok,” she tells him, thumb brushing against the line of his jaw. The stubble there is rough and uneven under the pads of her fingers but his lips are smooth and wet on hers when he leans forward.

His kiss is soft, a little hesitant but it floods her with an easy warmth. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes into her mouth, thumb stroking the long column of her neck like he’s trying to sooth the jump of her pulse. “Jesus,” he says and his grip on her hand tightens painfully before the hand she lays on his arm guides his mouth to hers. He tastes a little sour, like old coffee, when he kisses her again, prying open her mouth with an aching sweetness. It’s nothing like Chekov imagined before, the slow burn of desire and want or the feeling of being alive again and waking from a long sleep.

It feels like being reborn.


End file.
